


Green Flying Saucers and Blue Time Machines

by chicafrom3



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Alcohol, Challenge: Jack Harkness Crossover Ficathon, Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-30
Updated: 2006-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicafrom3/pseuds/chicafrom3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right planet, right country, wrong time period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Flying Saucers and Blue Time Machines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wishfulaces](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wishfulaces).



> Request: "a lively Jack, a thoroughly bewildered Arthur Dent, and an utterly drunk Ford Prefect."  
> Betaed by the incomparable nikiness.

Captain Jack Harkness, ex-Time Agent, 51st century playboy, and sometime hero, dug his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and heaved a heavy sigh.

Right planet, right country, wrong time period.

Damn it. 1980s Britain, what else could go wrong?

Tucking the extrapolator under his arm, he headed down the road, anyway. There was a pub there that he'd passed earlier, and at least he could get drunk. Possibly find someone cute and available.

There was definitely something going on in the pub. Lots of people, lots of noise, lots of alcohol. Okay, maybe for once since the Gamestation, something was going _right_ for him.

He slipped inside and looked around.

Almost immediately the crowd was pressed up against him, full of life and laughter, pressing out thoughts he didn't want to think, and he brightened up. For tonight, he was going to be Captain Jack Harkness, no thoughts of the Doctor or Rose or the TARDIS or death—

He waved down the bartender, shouted a request over the crowd for a pint of bitter, and dug out enough money from his pockets to pay for it.

Once the pint was in his hands, he took a long drink, then settled back to survey the crowd in the pub.

Lots of low-key locals, gathered to get drunk and have fun after a long workweek. Normal and human and _real_.

But there was one…

A man, in his thirties, tall and ginger-haired, standing by one of the windows and peering intently out at the sky.

There was definitely something weird about him. Cute, but weird. Jack studied him closer.

Then someone jostled the man and shouted, "Hey, Ford, what are you looking for?"

The man started and then looked around at his companions with a guilty smile. "Flying saucers," he offered, which got a roar of laughter, and Jack's interest piqued even more.

"What kind?" someone else shouted.

"Green ones!" he yelled back, grinning with a sudden, wild abandon, and threw himself towards the bar, already shouting for the bartender to pour a round for everyone.

As soon as he could, Jack made his way over to 'Ford' and coaxed him to a corner table with promises of copious amounts of alcohol.

"Captain Jack Harkness," he introduced himself, which got a drunkenly slurred reply of, "Ford Prefect. Captain of what?"

"Lots of things." Jack didn't elaborate, but shoved another pint at Ford. "What do you do?"

"'M a…" Ford paused, reconsidered, and said, "'M an actor."

"Really?" Careful not to be caught in the act, Jack toed open the leather satchel sitting on the floor next to Ford.

"Really!"

There was a squat black box tucked into the bag, under a battered script. Jack eyed it for a moment, recognizing the make; a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.

Under the Sens-O-Matic was a largish bath towel.

The Sens-O-Matic and the towel combined triggered only one analysis.

"Really," Jack echoed again. "Because when I saw you I thought you might be a writer."

 _The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy_ was a rather well-respected publication, the best-selling book out of Ursa Minor. A guide to surviving the galaxy on less than fifteen Alterian dollars a day. Before joining the Time Agency, Jack had been quite a fan; had even, briefly, entertained the idea of becoming a writer for them. Instead, he had joined the Time Agency, and shagged more than a few _Guide_ researchers, writers, editors, and accountants. As a result, he had a very good idea of how to identify a _Guide_ writer, and Ford Prefect was hitting all the points.

And even as drunk as he was, Ford managed to produce a rather impressive shrewd, impenetrable look.

"I said to myself," the captain pressed on, "You look like the kind of man who might enjoy some hitchhiking."

That got a reaction; Ford jerked a bit and spilled a little of his drink on the table. He regarded the spilled liquid mournfully. Then his gaze weaved slowly back up to Jack. "The color of the flying saucers doesn't matter all that much, really."

Jack shook his head in agreement. "Let's switch to whiskey, huh?"

In a soft, slurring murmur, in between drinks, Ford explained how he went from "roving researcher for the _Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy_ " to "stranded on Earth":

"I came here to write an article about Earth. Figured, hey, it'll take fifteen minutes, I'll make a week of it and enjoy myself and then find someplace more hoopy to be. Instead, I can't find a ride. I've been here fourteen years. _Fourteen years_ stuck in the middle of nowhere. I can't get paid for my writing. I can't write about anything. I can't… _nothing_ , y'get that?"

"I get that," Jack agreed.

"I mean, the people are…okay, most of the people are lousy, but there's a couple who're fairly froody. My friend Arthur, for instance, he's…he's a bit dull, but…"

"But what can you expect?"

"Right. And he's very well-meaning. And the girls!" Ford let out a low whistle. "Phreeowww!"

"I have seen the girls." Jack winked. "Few better."

"Exactly. But still…" Ford shook his head. "If I have to stay here much longer, I'll lose my mind."

"Wish I could help."

"Yeah." Ford blinked at Jack, and then carefully removed the captain's hand from his thigh. "What's your story?"

Jack contemplated his story, threw back his whiskey, and said, "Oh, I'm a disgraced ex-Time Agent." Trying to explain the conning, the Doctor, the TARDIS, Rose Tyler, and the extrapolator would just complicate things unnecessarily.

"A disgraced ex-Time Agent."

"Right."

"The _Guide_ …the _Guide_ has a section on the Time Agents, y'know that?"

"I didn't know that. What's it say?"

"Here, see for yourself." Ford fumbled with his satchel, produced his copy of the _Guide_ , and slid it discreetly to Jack.

Jack slipped off the cover, which read **Don't Panic!** in large friendly letters, and quickly manipulated the computer to the entry on the Time Agency.

The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy _has this to say about the Time Agency of the 51st century:_

 _The Time Agency, it says, is an inherently unstable and presumably corrupt organization that jealously guards the secret of time travel, under the guise of protecting the timestream from pollution and manipulation (see: Campaign for Real Time (CamTim) for more on this subject). Of course, while trying to protect the timestream from pollution and manipulation, the Time Agency has polluted and manipulated it a good bit, all on their very own. Well done!_

 _Time Agents, as a general rule, are sneaky, manipulative liars trained to pretend like they belong wherever and whenever they are. If you find yourself in the company of a Time Agent, your best bet is to get him, her, or it incredibly drunk and then sneak away quietly._

 _Sex is also a recommended distraction technique._

"That's a pretty good entry," he said admiringly. "Although…you want to know something?"

"What's that?"

"You can take out the 'presumably'. They're definitively corrupt." Jack laced his hands behind his neck. "'S why I left. Partly."

Ford eyed him somewhat suspiciously. "I thought you said 'disgraced'?"

"Right. They disgraced me after I quit. Are you going to distract me?" Jack provided Ford with his best alluring leer.

Ford eyed him for a moment, then said, "I'll buy you another whiskey?"

"That's all I get?"

"You're not my type, s'ry."

"Oh, all right."

"What are you up to now, Ford?" a loud voice intruded, and both men jumped at the sound.

Then Ford relaxed and gestured expansively, knocking over his empty glass. "Arthur, this 's Cap'n Jack Harkness. Jack, this 's my friend Arthur Dent I was tellin' you about."

Jack studied the newcomer. Thirty, dark-haired, rather average looking, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He promptly favored Arthur Dent with a wide, inviting smile. "Hi! It's nice to meet you, Mr. Dent." He stood up to shake Arthur's hand enthusiastically, looking him over appreciatively.

Arthur blinked at him, obviously taken aback—whether by the enthusiasm or the fact that Jack was checking him out, it was unclear. "Er. Nice to meet you as well, Captain."

"Let me buy you a drink. Ford and I were just getting properly drunk."

"Oh. Er. Sounds good." Blinking confusedly, Arthur sat down and accepted the glass Jack shoved at him.

Jack promptly launched loudly into a story appropriate for an English audience in the eighties, one that wouldn't announce that he was a time traveler. It nevertheless involved copious amounts of alcohol and nudity and kissing and running from danger, and by the time he reached the climax he had a sizable audience and a very pretty blonde sitting in his lap, licking his ear.

Ford was dozing in his chair, a good distance past "drunk" and mumbling incoherently about green spaceships.

Arthur still just looked worried.

Jack drew the story to its conclusion and was pleased that it was greeted by laughter, admiring looks, and a friendly grope or two. But he couldn't enjoy it to its fullest, distracted as he was by Ford's story.

A year or so ago he wouldn't have cared about one stranded researcher, not beyond what Ford could or couldn't do for him. The Doctor—and traveling with the Doctor, and fighting to earn the Doctor's respect—had definitely changed Jack.

He wondered, briefly, whether he had been changed for the better or worst.

He ordered another round and determined not to think about it tonight. There was alcohol and pretty people to think about instead.

Anyway, there wasn't anyway he could help Ford. The extrapolator was a one-person job, and he didn't have a way of coaxing a ship to the area to be flagged down by the hitchhiker. Short of sacrificing his own chances entirely, the only thing he could do was leave Ford here. But, hey, he had a job and friends and hope that someday a ship would come for him…all of which was more than Jack had.

He was depressing himself. He drained his glass, ordered another, and started another story.

By the time the pub started to close down, everyone was thoroughly sloshed, and Jack was feeling somewhat better. He glanced discretely at his wrist comm. and realized that it was time to get out; he'd spent more time than he'd planned to here, and it was back to aiming for early 21st century London.

"It's been lovely, folks," he said, tossing down some money to cover the drinks. "But, uh, I need to get back to the States."

This earned him a secure kiss by the girl who'd been on his lap half the evening, which he returned. He caught Ford's eye briefly as the other man attempted to sober up enough to get on his feet, grabbed Arthur on an impulse and kissed him which got amused applause from the gathered pubgoers and Arthur blinking at him in confused shock, and then he waved and staggered out of the pub.

It was half an hour before he found a side alley where he wouldn't be seen and pulled the extrapolator out to start preparing to leave.

"Wait!"

Jack obligingly paused, pushed the extrapolator back under his coat, and turned around. Ginger hair and a leather satchel came lurching drunkenly down the street towards him, and he managed a tired grin. "Ford—"

"Take me with you," the hitchhiker said desperately.

"Ford, I can't."

"You have to!" He looked close to tears. "I can't stay here, okay? This place is zarking insane. It's the middle of nowhere. Everything there is to do or see, I've done and saw, and I can't _take_ it anymore. I have to get out of here."

Jack felt for the poor guy, but reminded himself that the extrapolator was a one-person deal. _Remember that, Jack._ "Ford, I'm sorry, I wish I could, but I _can't_ , I honestly can't."

The Betelgeusian's face fell even more. If that was possible.

"It's just that this only carries one and I promise I'll try and find a spaceship and send them to you but I'm still looking for a specific spaceship of my own, a blue one, and—" Aware that he had started babbling, Jack stopped and bit his lip.

But Ford accepted it with admirably poor grace. "Okay," he said dejectedly. "You swear you'll try and send a spaceship to get me? I don't care the color, really."

"I promise." On impulse, Jack held his hand out to shake Ford's. When the other man took his hand, Jack pulled him into a tight hug, which had the unfortunate side result of knocking Ford's satchel off his shoulder and onto the ground, spilling scripts, the towel, and the _Guide_. "I'll do what I can."

"Uhm. Thanks?" Ford wiggled free, grabbed his satchel and started shoving things back in it clumsily. "Are you sure I can't…?"

"I'm sure. And I'm sorry."

"Okay. Okay." He backed off…probably afraid Jack was going to hug him again. "Oh, and tell my editor that I'm not bumming, okay?"

"Got it." Jack put the extrapolator down and stepped on it. He triggered the makeshift energy source he'd rigged up.

Seconds later, he was gone, and Ford Prefect stood alone in the middle of the street, once again with no hope of leaving the rock called Earth.


End file.
